


These Ghosts Are Not My Own

by BeautyGraceOuterSpace



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jim needs a hug, Mind Meld, PTSD, Panic Attack, Tarsus IV, anxiety attack, consequences of the mind meld, mentions past child abuse, post Narada, tarsus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyGraceOuterSpace/pseuds/BeautyGraceOuterSpace
Summary: Post-Narada and Jim isn't coping. He hasn't eaten or slept, he's beat all to hell and his head is full of memories that he's pretty sure aren't his. Of course Bones is here to witness it all.





	1. Bones

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, a HUGE thank you to fromashell (Ao3)/darkwarps (tumblr) for taking my trash and making it legible. Thank you for reading this eight million times and for your invaluable input and editing skills!

This was nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. He had dealt with loss, he had dealt with genocide, God knows he’d dealt with more than his fair share of impossible circumstances and come out on top; he could handle this. Of course he could.

Or at least that’s what he would have been telling himself if old Spock hadn’t done whatever the hell that _thing_ was and screwed up his head.

As it was, he was sitting half slumped on the bathroom floor in Bones’ quarters, squished between the toilet and shower, fists in his hair trying desperately to stop trembling. He hadn’t been assigned quarters on the Enterprise, seeing as he wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place, and Bones was working overtime on Pike, so he had given Jim a once over and told him to get to a bed before telling him the key code for the physician’s quarters.

The taste of bile lingering in his mouth, he shakily wiped a hand across his lips and pushed himself to his feet. He caught his reflection in the mirror as he rose: bloody scratches, livid bruises, and all the signs of complete and utter exhaustion. Everything he expected to see after surviving yet another genocide.

He sighed, matching his reflection stare for stare. Kelvin. Tarsus. Vulcan. So many innocent lives. So many changed forever. What could one man do in the face of so much devastation? How was he meant to endure this again, to be a leader again when he was just as broken as the rest, just as frightened, just as lost? Hang on tight and survive, he told himself, standing straight with a wince as it pulled on sore ribs and aching muscles. It was all he could do.

He took a step towards the door, fully intending to follow the doctor’s orders for once and try to get some rest, but his shaking legs gave out beneath him. With a gasp of pain he landed hard on his hands and knees.

_Fuck._

This was bad; he couldn’t go to bed, he had work to do. He had to check on the crew, make sure the Vulcan survivors were alright, apologize to Spock, report to Pike -- once he was conscious-- and tell him exactly what had happened. He had to confer with the admiralty and hope they didn’t throw him out on his ass for playing stowaway and disrupting the chain of command-- he briefly wondered if it could be considered impersonating a senior officer.

And if they _did_ finally decide that he wasn’t worth the trouble, would Pike be able to do a damn thing to stop them? Not this time. Not again.

His stomach rolled unpleasantly as he gripped the counter, hauling himself to his feet. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and upper lip. 72 hours with no sleep, no food-- he once again reminded himself he was _not_ on Tarsus, not anymore-- the adrenaline and alien viruses in his system hadn’t done him any favors either.

Light glinted off the tiles, the glare hitting his eyes and for a brief moment he was there, surrounded by snow, watching his home world be destroyed before his eyes and--

_No._

Those weren’t his memories. But if they weren’t his memories then why did it hurt so much? Why did it feel like his heart was broken and his stomach was going to come out of his mouth? Why did his chest ache, tightening as his breath caught in his throat, choking him with a grief he could not express?

Sweaty fingers lost their grip and he stumbled backwards, shoulders hitting the wall, tender ribs protesting the rough treatment and breaking him from his train of thought. God, what was wrong with his head? This wasn’t right.

What did Spock _do_ to him?

He slid to the floor, knees buckling. Palms splayed against the tiles, squeaking, slick with sweat. He could feel himself tremble as he fought down the panic and the bile rising within him. A pounding pressure began to build behind his eyes. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t tell what memories were real and which weren’t, what was his and what was Spock’s.

And then he heard the hiss of the bedroom door opening.

_Fuck._

He brought his knees slowly to his chest, still trembling hands clutching his sweat matted hair, as he heard the footsteps approach the door.

_Rap. Rap. Rap._

“Jim?”

Nope. This couldn’t happen. He hadn’t pulled himself together yet, not by a long shot. Bones had already spent so much time trying to patch him up; he'd offered up his room, his bed-- which Jim had so far neglected. And didn’t that make him an asshole. His best friend-- who was just as tired, just as overwhelmed-- gave up his _bed_ and he didn’t even have the decency to follow a simple instruction.

“Jim?” Bones hollered, voice muffled by the door. He slammed his fist against the door.

Once. Again. Three times.

Ashamed and scared for reasons he barely understood, Jim stayed on the floor, shaking. He pushed himself firmly into the corner, back against the wall, and pressed his forehead to his knees, clutching at his hair and clenching his eyes shut, trying to force back memories: some his and some not.

None of this, of course, did anything to prevent Bones from using his ship-wide CMO override code to come in anyway when Jim didn’t respond.

_Fuck._

The door opened. Bones rushed toward him, feet padding across the tile floor. It took everything in him not to flinch, but he reminded himself that he was ignoring Bones right now. If he didn’t, he’d fall apart and no one had time for that.

Bones was going to yell. Of course he was. Jim was an idiot, had been nothing but reckless since he got on this ship. If he had been faster, stronger-- maybe all those people wouldn’t have died. Maybe his kids would still be here-- _no, damn it._ He _wasn’t_ on Tarsus. He _wasn’t._

He was standing in the snow, alone.

He was driving a car off a cliff.

He was standing before Kodos.

His entire planet. His entire race. _Gone._

A hand on the back of his head startled him back to the present. Bones crouched before him with a heavy sigh. Jim hiked his shoulders up towards his ears, trying to make himself smaller, bracing himself for the beratement that was coming. It was no more than what he deserved.

“Oh, darlin’...”

_What?_

The soft words took him by surprise and he raised his head cautiously, hands still gripping his short, dirty hair. Bones’ hand fell from Jim’s crown, and back to his own knee. Jim watched it, the motion seeming too slow, surreal as his mind struggled against the fog and the panic and tried to connect the dots of the here and now against the conflicting memories in his head. He looked up at Bones’ face, and found not anger or exasperation, but a gentle, almost apologetic expression. He opened his mouth to speak, but his body betrayed him and a sob flew from his lips instead, choking into a pained sound as he clenched his teeth against it.

Embarrassed, his shoulders rolled protectively forward as he folded himself inward against the desperate sounds of grief. His newly mended ribs ached.

A gentle touch on his wrists guided his hands away from his hair, and reluctantly he released his grip as he struggled against the tears forming in his eyes. Strong hands moved his legs to the side, and hauled him bodily forward. Jim gulped loud inhalations through his clenched teeth, eyes firmly shut against the world, against the memories, against the pain.

He startled at the soft touch of a hand in his hair, throwing himself off balance. He scrabbled  for purchase, but Bones’ grip was firm and he held him upright. He slumped forward in the doctor’s hold, finally losing his battle against the tears and sobbing for all he was worth.  Bones turned him around, Jim’s back to his front.  He held Jim firm in the cage of his body, pinning him at the elbows. Jim’s hands clutched at Bones’ forearm in a punishing grip, searching for something, _anything_ to anchor him to the present. He was free falling. Nothing was going to catch him.

Gut wrenching cries, strong enough to make him cough and choke, shook his entire body. He sounded terrible, gasping, guttural sounds escaping his lips as Bones gently rocked him back and forth, not saying a word. With a hand in Jim’s hair, Bones guided his cheek to his chest.

The heartbeat under his ear was steady and strong; a comical contrast to his own, which felt like it was going to leap out of his chest and shatter into a million pieces. He was weak. He was tired, and frightened, and so confused. He didn’t even realize that he was weeping apologies again and again until he heard Bones’ soothing voice.

“Hush, you ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for. You’re alright. It’s alright.”

Of course he did. How could he _not_? The car, the kids, the test, Vulcan, the things he said to Spock-- he had so much to apologize for, how could Bones not _see_ that? He had to make him understand that he had _tried_ , he had tried so damn hard, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

The words wouldn’t come, just more great gasping sobs, and he was tired, so _tired._

But there were things he had to do still, and instead he was crying on a bathroom floor while his best friend held him like a child.

_Pathetic._

He inhaled sharply.  That voice in his head was _Frank,_ and _god_ he could not handle any more right now. His breath quickened, but despite this he felt himself suffocating; there wasn’t enough _air._

He shook and gasped, grip tightening on the arm around him. Blind panic coursed through him as he fought to breathe, to focus, to remember where he was.

A voice cut through the haze: “Jim… Jim, you _have_ to calm down.”

 _Calm down?_ How could he calm down when he couldn’t remember which way was up and his lungs were collapsing? How could he calm down when the governor had ordered the execution of half the colonists, and just like that the whole planet was gone and his home was nothing more than a blank space in the sky, his people--

_No, goddamn it._

He became aware of an awful sound and all too late he realized it was _him._ A pathetic sound, whimpering and keening like a kicked dog.

“Jim, please, I don’t want to have to sedate you, darlin’, but you have to get your breathin’ under control.”

Jim shook his head , breath still coming out in harsh, too fast pants, and lurched forward, fighting the hold for the first time. Bones caught him before he had moved more than a few inches.

_No drugs. God, please, Bones, no drugs._

“I know, kid, I know,” Bones said, tightening his grip, moving one hand back up to gently stroke Jim’s hair. “But you’re gonna have to listen to me, ok?”

He was breathing too fast. His throat caught and he coughed. He needed air.

He nodded. The room spun as he was turned to face Bones, hands bracing  to catch himself on the ground as the arm around him fell away, but Bones didn’t let him fall. There was a hand on his face, then, warm and strong, and another at his wrist, lifting his hand to Bones’ chest.

“Match me, Jim,” Bones commanded, holding Jim’s hand firm to his chest as he exaggerated his breaths in a slow and steady rhythm.  Jim tried, he really did.

Despite his efforts, his chest continued to rise too quickly. “‘M sorry, B-Bones,” he croaked, voice broken and raw.

“Shhh, hush now,” Bones said, putting a hand on the back of Jim’s neck. “Breath, Jim, c’mon. In. Out. In… there you go.” Jim didn’t fight the pressure that guided him to lean forward, head resting on his knees where he knelt on the floor. The hand stayed, kneading small circles into the taut muscles of his upper back as the other did the same on the hand still held against Bones’ chest. Bones continued to repeat like a prayer: “In. Out. In. Out.”

His breath slowed marginally, but his body still trembled and ached, his mind was still foggy with confusion and the aftershock of panic. He barely felt the hypo pierce his skin. He exhaled a shuddering breath, too tired to protest beyond a mumbled, “Ow.”

“Sorry, kid,” Bones said, and Jim could hear the fond smile in his voice. “Just a mild pain killer. Your ribs can’t feel too great after all this, and your head’s gotta be pounding.” Jim didn’t move. He murmured a non-committal agreement into his knees as his eyelids began to grow heavy. “Ok, darlin’, let’s get you to bed,” Bones insisted, shifting so he could lift one of Jim’s arms over his own shoulder and help him to his feet.

Jim groaned as his stiff muscles protested the movement, fumbling for balance as he rose to his feet. Bones quietly said, “I gotcha, kid. I gotcha.” It made him feel a bit better.

They took a few stilted steps towards the bedroom, moving slowly for Jim’s sake, and Jim was reminded of just a few days  prior, when Bones had helped him aboard the Enterprise in a similar fashion: a hypo, and a half carry/half drag while Jim struggled to keep up. That had been before… it seemed so long ago. His breath hitched again and he tripped on his own foot; Bones didn’t let go.

Bones sat him on the bed, on _his_ bed, and normally Jim would have made a joke or vague protest but he was so tired. He didn’t protest as Bones gently wrestled him out of his shirt, filthy and torn and stained with blood, though the dark material didn’t show it. His shoes were removed then, and his pants, next, leaving him in boxers. It was nothing Bones hadn’t seen before; he was his doctor and roommate after all. But Bones was walking away, back to the bathroom. His head felt heavy.

He closed his eyes, fighting to stay upright as the drugs took their full effect. He didn’t hurt anymore. Not physically, anyway. That was nice. He remembered when his mother would help him get ready for bed when he was a child, the warm nights in their home, now gone forever, her soft hands in his dark hair and her smiling eyes glimmering in the dim light as she sang him lullabies---

He snorted, a humorless laugh. His mother hadn’t done any of that shit, she’d left as soon as he was old enough to eat on his own. Guess his head was still fucked. Oh well. He was too tired to care.

“Somethin’ funny?” Bones said, voice closer than expected, and Jim opened his eyes in surprise. Bones had changed and was wearing sweatpants and his undershirt. He held a washcloth, damp from the sink, in one hand, and a clean t-shirt in the other. He watched Jim, laying the shirt on the bed beside him.

“Mm-mm,” Jim denied. Nothing funny about it at all. He reached for the shirt, and pulled it clumsily over his head.

“Ok, kiddo. Lie down,” Bones said, patting one of the pillows on the bed, “and then scoot over a bit. We both gotta get some sleep.”

Guilt won out, after all. “But ‘s yer bed,” he slurred. “I don’t wanna---”

“You and I both know you don’t have a bed assignment, and I’m pretty sure one night ain’t gonna kill us. Lie down.”

Jim did as he was told, arms and legs feeling too long and too gangly to obey his commands fully, but he managed to lie down and sort of roll onto his side to make more room for Bones. He blinked blearily up at Bones as he approached the bed.

“Close your eyes,” Bones instructed. Jim blinked. Bones reached towards his face, just a little too fast, apparently; the remaining panic caused him to flinch minutely, screwing up his eyes in anticipation.

He heard a heavy sigh from above him as the washcloth, warm and damp, settled over his swollen and aching eyes. Shame flooded him; he knew better than to think Bones would hit him. If he hadn't yet, he probably never would.

Bones sat on the edge of the bed, and Jim felt it depress with his weight. The sheets rustled as Bones settled them over the both of them, and Jim sighed contentedly at the warmth, though his breath hitched a little in the aftermath of his tears.

They lay there for a few minutes, and Jim could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness.

Before he succumbed to the darkness, he whispered, “’m sorry I freaked out, Bones. Didn’t mean to.”

Bones was quiet for a moment before he replied, “Nothing to be sorry for, kid. But I’m not gonna lie, you had me pretty worried for a bit there. I wasn’t sure you were ever gonna calm down.”

Jim’s lips twitched, a halfhearted smile. “Pro’ly wouldn’t have been as bad if he hadn’t gotten into my head. Made things all… diff’rent.”

Bones rose up on his elbows in alarm. “If who hadn’t _what_ , now?” he demanded, dark suspicion forming in his mind.

Jim was already asleep.

 

* * *

 

Jim woke several hours later, confused and breathing heavily .

His dream had been oddly distressing,, but it shouldn’t have been. His mother, father, brother, all smiling proudly as he was named captain of the Enterprise… it was perfect. It had felt so real.

 _Was_ it real? Had that been a memory, too, perhaps shared with the older Spock by his own counterpart in another time?

He dragged a hand down his face. At least after some sleep, his head felt a little more like it was screwed on straight, and he didn’t feel nearly as insane. That was something.

He stretched, inhaling deeply... or trying to; he found that his nose was all stuffed up from crying earlier. That was annoying. He sat up slowly, noting that Bones was already gone. The sound of the shower running gave away his location, and Jim felt the panic he hadn’t noticed rising slowly fade away.

He took his time getting up, and had just slung his legs off the side of the bed when Bones reappeared, hair damp and dressed in a clean uniform. He still didn’t have any, himself. He still wasn’t supposed to be here.

He smiled softly at Bones, both in greeting and as a sign that he was ok, really. Just thrown for a loop and still a little tired. Bones had always been able to read him well.

“How’d you sleep?” Bones asked, making his way to the desk on the opposite wall and sitting down to pull on his boots.

Jim ran a hand through his hair, which felt sticky with old sweat and dirt. He needed a shower. “Fine,” he said. “Better than expected, anyway.” Bones nodded. Apparently that was a satisfactory answer. “So uh--”

“You said something last night that’s not sittin’ too well with me,” Bones cut right to the chase. Jim blinked a few times as he tried to think about what exactly he had done that Bones didn’t like. The night before was kind of a general blur for him.

“Ok,” he said slowly. “W-what did I say, exactly?”

Bones sighed, rubbing a hand across his chin like he did when he was mad about something.

_Well, shit._

Whatever it was he had said or done, it wasn’t good. Another fuck up to add to the laundry list of the last few days.

“You said…” Bones paused, visibly trying to calm himself down. “You said that maybe you wouldn't have had a panic attack ‘cept for ‘he got in your head’.” Bones rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and making full eye contact with Jim. “You wanna tell me what in the hell that means?”

Jim paused momentarily, considering the potential ramifications of defying the elder Spock’s orders and informing Bones about his existence and therefore potentially screwing up the entirety of the space time continuum and sending them into an alternate dimension or something. But it was Bones; Bones knew everything else about him. Why not this, too?

“Do you uh,” he stopped and cleared his throat. “Do you know anything about Vulcan… I don’t know, I guess it’s kind of like telepathy? He put his fingers here and here.” He did his best to replicate what the older version of Spock had done.  

Bones’ eyes widened. It might have been funny if he didn’t look so pissed. “Do you mean to tell me that Spock---”

“No!” Jim quickly answered, picking at the hem of his shirt. “And… yes. It’s complicated.”

Bones raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

“Explain,” he said.

So Jim did. He told Bones about  climbing out of his safety pod and up the ice cliffs. He told him about the Hengrauggi, and the mysterious stranger who saved him, knew his face and his name. He told him how it wasn’t a stranger at all, just an older, different Spock.

He told him how his other self, in some other universe, was captain of the Enterprise but through legitimate means, not by subterfuge and underhanded tricks.

_"You did what you had to do, Jim, and I think I speak for everyone onboard when I say we’re thankful.”_

He told him about the fondness that Spock seemed to have for his counterpart, their friendship that seemed to surpass his comprehension.

_“Really? The pointy eared hobgoblin being all chummy? That’ll be the day.”_

He told him about how Spock spoke of a past he never got to have; a mother who never left. A brother who never bailed. A father who loved him and was proud of him… who wasn’t dead.

He sighed heavily, wrapping his arms around himself in a loose parody of a hug.

Bones was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he asked, “Jim… are you--”

“Please don’t, Bones,” he begged. “Not now.”

“Jim, don’t you think you should---”

“Later, I promise. Just… not now. I have to… be captain, and stuff.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that promise, kid.”

Jim hadn’t expected any different.

“Bones, uh,” he paused. “Thank you…” he shrugged, hitching up a shoulder, “for everything.”

“Anytime, kid,” Bones replied sincerely. After a moment, he clapped his hands, making Jim jump and look up. “Ok, here’s the game plan: you need to shower and eat, and then we figure out this thing with your memories, ok? We’ll get this sorted.”

Jim nodded, finally standing from the bed. He made his way slowly toward the bathroom, muscles still not fully recovered; he was sure his little breakdown yesterday hadn’t helped matters any. He spotted his boots placed up against the wall, and stopped to reach for them.

“Hey, did you hear me? I said food and shower,” Bones protested.

“I hear you,” Jim said, reaching into the left boot and pulling out a protein bar. He held it up so Bones could see it. “Food.”

He held it out, offering it to Bones first. As expected, Bones shook his head. Leaning against the wall, he forced himself to eat it slowly. His body urged him to eat more, faster, but after a few days without food he knew better than to push himself like that. He really didn’t want to throw up again.

Finishing the bar and throwing away the wrapper, he made a mental note to replace it before the day was out. He always kept protein bars in his boots. Always.

He pushed off from the wall and walked passed Bones, who was reading a message on his comm, clapping him on the shoulder as he went. “Shower,” he said, placatingly.

“Make it quick,” Bones replied, rising to his feet and gathering up his portable med-kit. “Pike’s awake. He wants to see you.”


	2. Pike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim meets with Pike to debrief in the wake of the devastation left behind. Pike has another conversation in mind.

Jim sighed as the door closed behind him. Food. Shower. Meet with Pike. One down, two to go.

He felt much better after eating something. He always did. Food helped him focus, helped to relieve some of the panic whenever things went wrong. It was something he and Bones were still working on. Whenever he got stressed, he either comfort ate in excess or he didn't eat at all; there was no in between. Big shout out to Tarsus IV for that wonderful habit.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which still felt sticky and clumped with sweat. Gross. After running around nonstop the past few days, he was sure he probably didn't smell too great either.

He showered quickly, but took care to clean his hair and face the best he could. The steam relieved some of the rough, achy feeling of his throat. The bruises lingering on his cheekbone and jaw stung at his touch, and the various scratches he had accumulated burned under the spray, but he felt marginally better as some of the remaining tension in his muscles reacted to the heat. _Warm like evenings on Vulcan…_

_No._

He stepped out of the shower, averting his gaze from the corner he had huddled in the night before; he was still embarrassed, though not entirely surprised, that he had broken down like that.

At least only Bones had been around to see it. He knew Jim better than anyone, and he wouldn't judge him for a moment of weakness... probably. Hell, if anything Bones had seemed pissed off at old Spock for doing that mind-meld thing on him "against his will". Jim had argued that it wasn't exactly against his will, he just hadn't quite understood what exactly was happening, which had for some reason had made Bones even more upset.

Oh well. A lot more people were going to be upset with him before all this was over. First on the list was Pike.

He left the bathroom, returning to the bedroom, and paused, towel around his waist. He didn't have any other clothes. He had come on board in his cadet reds, which had been taken and left God knows where, leaving him in his blacks. Those had been thoroughly trashed, dirt, sweat, and blood soiling the fabric, and he had no idea where Bones had put them, anyway. What was he supposed to wear? He made his way to the closet, or, what he assumed was the closet, but it didn't open. Instead, at his touch the paneling lit up. Uniform dispenser. Of course. He paused; what was he supposed to wear?

He wasn't exactly official here; he couldn't just throw on a command shirt, could he?

_A different ship. A different time. Endless mornings of selecting the same, comforting blue of a science officer, Jim ever present at the captain’s post in his gold…_

_No. T_ hose were _not_ his memories, damn it.

He input his ID number, and the computer responded: "Cadet Kirk, Starfleet ID: 4147923. Status: Probation. Options---" before showing him two choices: cadet reds or uniform blacks. Right back where he started.

With a sigh, he selected the uniform blacks; better neutrality than a glaring reminder of his unorthodox-- and temporary, he reminded himself with a pang of sadness-- promotion. There was still a good possibility that once they got back to earth he would be court martialed and expelled.

He dressed slowly, aches and bruises still twinging with pain. He gave himself one last glance in the mirror. He still looked like hell. He had stalled long enough; squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath and made his way towards medbay.

* * *

 

Medbay was quieter than expected, he thought as he entered, wrinkling his nose against the sterile smell and bright lights. After the chaos of the last few days, the nearly silent wing was disconcerting. God, he hated hospitals. He had just been here yesterday, why did he have to come back so soon? If he had things his way, he'd never be near them at all.

Bones had practically dragged him there once everything had settled, and forced him into a bed for evaluation and treatment. Jim had thought it unnecessary; he could have told Bones exactly what was wrong with him. Broken hand, a few cracked ribs, low blood sugar, and some cuts and bruises. Not bad, all things considered. He'd had worse. Bones, however, being the consummate medical professional -- and stubborn ass-- that he was, wouldn't listen. Jim hadn't expected anything different.

If he was being honest, it was kind of nice that someone cared. He wasn't used to that, yet.

He made his way towards the room he had last seen Pike in, unconscious and rushed into emergency surgery, weaving between the biobeds and monitors. Reaching the doorway, he glanced in and saw Pike looking much as he had when he'd left him: eyes closed, breaths even, though his color was remarkably improved.

He turned to make his way to the CMO's office to ask Bones for an update on his condition, but a low voice from behind stopped him. "And where do you think you're going, Kirk?"

_Fuck._

"Nowhere, sir," he replied, recovering quickly and turning on his heel, stopping in at-ease attention facing Pike. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't think you were awake and I didn't want to disturb you."

"Nice try, son," Pike replied, crooking a finger towards himself in a silent demand for Jim to come closer.

Jim obeyed.

He stood awkwardly at the bedside, stiff with tension, as Pike gave him a long appraising look. He tried not to fidget under the scrutiny.

Finally, Pike spoke.

"How are things going, Jim?"

And here it was, time to outline all of his shortcomings in neat, succinct military jargon so it could be used in the case against him later. He cleared his throat and began.

"Well, sir, as you know we received a distress call from Vulcan at roughly 1100 hours standard time---" _His entire planet. Gone._

"Jim--"

"Right, sorry, sir. I'll skip ahead, uh-- to the best of my understanding the ship is operating adequately, though we are short on power. After the destruction of the Romulan vessel Narada, the collision of the red matter created a black hole and to escape we-- _I_ , sir, _I_ made the call to launch the warp core into the hole to create a reverse force to project us away from the danger, which I know is a bit unorthodox--" _Millions of lives. Lost._

"Jim--"

"--but it was our -- _my_ only choice, sir, and I did what I thought gave us the best chance of survival. The crew has been set on rotational shifts until we reach earth orbit--" _My fault…_

"Jim!" The sharp tone finally made Jim falter and he trailed into silence.

"Yessir?" He said, falling back into attention, and desperately trying to get his thoughts in order.

"Jim, son," Pike said tiredly, a sad frown creasing his brows, "I know. Spock filled me in while you were resting -- stop right there,” he cut off Jim’s attempt to speak, “you were on medical rest, I don't fault you for that. I was asking how you are doing."

_Oh._

“I--” his voice faltered after that sad attempt at speech, and he trailed into silence, eyes falling shut in disgust at his own weakness.

Pike sighed, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips in what Jim assumed could only be exasperation.

“At ease, kid. Take a seat,” he said softly. Jim complied, quietly pulling the chair from the corner to rest at Pike’s bedside, and perching nervously on the edge. “Christ, Jim, you’re shaking. Have you eaten? Slept?”

Jim followed Pike’s gaze to his own hands and found that-- oh shit, they _were_ shaking, just like he’d said.

He nodded in response to the inquiry, rubbing his hands together in a nervous attempt to ease their trembling.

“You hurt?” Pike continued, scrutinizing eyes raking him over, taking note of every bruise and cut that still lingered on his skin. “I mean… more than what I can see?”

Jim shook his head. His ribs were still a bit tender but that was to be expected, and the rest of him was healing nicely after Bones’ treatment.

Pike’s voice was impossibly soft when he continued: “Then what’s going on, kid?”

Jim dragged a still trembling hand down his face, stopping with a half laugh as he rubbed his chin. Hell if he knew. Well, he _did_ know to some extent. Spock the Old had done something to his head and now everything was completely screwy. But he couldn’t exactly say it without risking unknowable consequences. He probably shouldn’t have even told Bones, but in the moment, he hadn’t been able to help it. He couldn’t do this alone. Not this time.

Pike’s expression had morphed into outright concern now. With a sigh, Jim tried to explain.

“’S just a lot,” he slurred softly, gnawing his inner lower lip as he stared at nothing in particular. “Finding out what happened with--” he faltered, “with my dad… and everything with Nero, Vulcan…” he closed his eyes against the still too raw residual pain from the meld and his own guilt. “All those people…”

 _Millions of bonds, severed. An entire culture, eradicated. Himself, helpless to stop it, helpless to do anything but stand and watch, the snow a sharp contrast to the ash and destruction above_ \--

Against his will, a tear slipped out from under his eyelid and tracked slowly down his face. He could feel his chin quivering.

 _Damn it_ , what was _wrong_ with him? He _had_ to pull himself together. He still had a job to do, he was still in command, at least until they reached earth.

With a cough, he opened his eyes and roughly swept the tears away, straightening in his chair.

“Sorry, sir, I seem to be a bit… unsettled by everything. I probably just didn’t sleep enough--”

“James,” Pike interrupted softly. “Cut the bullshit.”

Jim opened his mouth to reply, but he closed it just as quickly. His teeth clicked audibly against each other. A muscle jumped in his cheek.“Yessir.”

Pike’s expression was soft now, patient and understanding. After a few moments of silence, he spoke.

“You know, one of my first missions out, there was this planet. Full of fault lines. We had done research and we knew there was a possibility but… we weren’t prepared for the quake-- absolutely massive. After--,” he paused. “When it was over, the planet’s population had been nearly eradicated. Not completely, but the loss was devastating. In the weeks that followed, I spent countless hours obsessing. Running calculations, researching earthquakes. I was certain there was something we had missed, something more we could have done. I was running myself into the ground, I felt so guilty.”

He caught Jim’s eye. Jim felt his cheeks color, embarrassed at being so easily read.

“I want to tell you something my captain told me, Jim, and I want you to really hear me. Understand?”

Jim nodded.

“She said to me,… ‘Sometimes, all we can do is our best. Sometimes, it doesn’t seem like enough. But for all of our sakes, sometimes it has to be.’”

Jim knew, logically, that Pike was right. He couldn’t let guilt eat at him for this. He’d spent too much of his life dealing with guilt already, guilt over things that he knew without a doubt were beyond his control: his dad’s death, his mom having to be a single parent, his brother leaving. Tarsus.

He had spent years feeling like somehow, he should have been able to prevent these things from happening, like they were somehow his fault. Sometimes he still had his suspicions that, in a way, they were. It drove Bones crazy, made his accent thicker and the profanities more frequent.

But this-- this wasn’t that simple. He could explain away other things with youthful ignorance, or inability to control the situation. He had been a child; things had literally been out of his hands. He had had no power.

But this?

He had cheated on the test. He had gotten himself put on probation. Being demoted had taken away the possibility of being assigned to the Enterprise from the beginning. Having to sneak on board had wasted valuable time, being unconscious even more so. He should have recognized the lightning storm for what it was sooner. He could have been able to talk to Pike earlier. He could have saved his people, he could have prevented all of this but instead---

_Standing in the snow watching the remains of his planet crumble and vanish---_

_No._

“Jim?” Pike questioned, reaching out a hand to clasp his shoulder. Jim realized he had been quiet for far too long.

Avoiding a direct answer, he cleared his throat and managed to croak out the words, “She sounds like she was a hell of a lady." A nostalgic smile spread across Pike’s face, the skin around his eyes creasing and crinkling in fond remembrance. 

"You saved a lot of people, myself included, and I’m grateful for that.” He squeezed Jim’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. Jim rocked in his seat with the motion. “You did good, kid."

"Yeah…” Jim responded as Pike’s hand fell away, but his tone was flat. He smirked cynically. “Something to remember me by, at least."

Pike jerked back so fast Jim was surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash. He looked utterly shocked, opening and closing his mouth in what Jim assumed was confusion.

Finally, he spoke. "I'm sorry?" he asked, raising an eyebrow with a frown. Jim scoffed at him, probably not the best or most respectful move, but who was he kidding?

"I mean, all this aside, Sir-- it doesn't erase the fact that I 'cheated'”--and ok, maybe the air quotes weren’t necessary-- “on the test. With Spock's charges against me and my, let's face it, unorthodox handling of everything so far, you and I both know there's a pretty good chance I'm out on my ass as soon as we dock."

Pike was silent. For a long moment he just stared at Jim; growing uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Jim picked absently at his cuticles. He wasn’t one to shy away from attention, but he was really getting sick of people staring at him with that concerned, evaluating look. Not that he could blame them, he was clearly a mess right now. He really wished he could get his emotions under control---

_He wondered, not for the first time, if undergoing Kolinahr would make his grief more tolerable, as he had wondered when he had lost the good doctor, and Jim---_

Jesus _Fucking_ Christ already.

“You just let me handle the admiralty, kid,” Pike said with finality, his tone calculating and forcibly controlled. “Take my word for it. I’d bet my rank that your future with Starfleet is safe.”

Jim looked at him skeptically.

“Hey, I’m not saying there won’t be consequences for what you pulled with the Kobayashi Maru,” Pike continued. “But I think you’ve more than proven yourself these past few days. As long as you watch the attitude.” He said this last part pointedly, and watched Jim shrug in half-hearted apology.

Pike knew what to expect from him at this point.

Jim wasn’t anywhere near as convinced as Pike seemed to be that things would work out in his favor. Things rarely did, but he was in no mood to argue. His energy was flagging and his mind really needed to figure out which memories were his and which ones weren’t before he completely lost it.

“If you say so, Sir.”

His exhaustion must have been plain to see, because Pike took pity on him.

“Get some more rest, Kirk. Dr. McCoy is good, but even he can’t hide those bags under your eyes.”

Jim smirked and, rising from his seat, extended his hand to Pike. He grasped it in one of his own, giving it a firm shake.

Jim turned to take his leave, spotting Bones hovering near a patient suspiciously close to Pike’s door.

Eavesdropping, no doubt. Worry wart.

“And Jim?” Pike called as he reached the doorway. Jim turned back over his shoulder. “Give Spock a chance. He’s a stickler for the rules, that’s for sure, but he’s a good officer.” He tilted his head. “A good man. He’ll never cease to surprise you.”

Jim was beginning to suspect that as well-- he just wished his entire future wasn’t at risk because of the guy.

_Live long and prosper, my ass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, HUGE thank you to brandypeach for reading and editing. 
> 
> Please kudos and comment!


	3. Spock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you so much for reading! This was my first multi-chapter fic for the Star Trek fandom, and my first one overall in a long time! I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> This chapter could technically come after another fic of my, "And God Knows I Tried (But It's Never Enough)", but it's not necessary to read that one to understand thing chapter. 
> 
> If you could leave a kudos and a comment, that would mean the world to me. It really encourages me to keep writing. 
> 
> Once again, a massive thanks to brandypeach for wading through all 6,079 words (20 pages!!!) of this chapter and editing it to perfection. Could not have done it without you. <3

Sitting on the couch in the dorm he shared with Bones, Jim sighed and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes with enough force to see stars pop and glow behind his eyelids and forced himself to breath steadily through his nose. He was going to puke, he was almost positive.

He’d done a thorough job making an absolute idiot of himself the night before, drinking himself into a desolate stupor sitting alone and watching holovids of the current news streams, each and every one declaring him a hero and the golden boy of Starfleet.

Yeah right.

It had been a hellish week, full of debriefings and meetings and procedure and protocol; he’d gotten a migraine the first day. Bones had thankfully put him on medical leave for a few days, which gave him time to finish healing from all of his injuries and recover. But when he’d heard what they’d been saying about him, acting like he was some kind of savior, like he’d done something amazing…

_Like his race wasn’t now facing extinction because of a careless mistake he had made..._

He tried to keep in mind what Pike had told him about guilt, but he couldn’t help it. He should have been able to do _more._ His life lately had been a colossal string of fuck ups, and he couldn’t pretend like everything was perfect.

Bones had been pissed when he’d come home from a shift at Starfleet Medical and seen him finishing off the better part of half a bottle--- maybe ‘pissed’ wasn’t the right word. He’d been concerned, mostly, but Bones tended to express concern with an overload of gruff commands and sometimes it came through as anger at first.

_‘Really, Dr. McCoy. You must learn to govern your passions; they will be your undoing. Logic suggests...’_

Bones had told him off in the nicest way anyone ever had-- if he was being honest. Afterward, he had instructed him to sleep off the alcohol he had consumed and to see him in the morning for a hangover cure.

Well, it was morning. And based on the pounding in his head, he’d need it.

Disentangling his legs from the blanket still wrapped around them, he slowly rose to his feet, stomach lurching dangerously as his center of gravity shifted. Clenching his teeth, he continued breathing carefully through his nose.

In. Out. In.

If he was going to move, he probably needed to take his hands away from his eyes.

Crap.

“Lights, 10%,” he whispered, grimacing at the sound of his voice, cracked, and rough with sleep. He reluctantly pried his hands away from his face as the room responded accordingly, dim lighting letting him at least make out the shapes and locations of furniture. Not that he really needed it, he knew his way around this place, even in the dark. But he didn’t usually sleep on the couch, and the last thing he wanted was a stubbed toe on top of his headache and the lingering urge to vomit.

He made his way carefully across the floor to Bones’ door. Glancing at the clock on the living room wall to make sure it wasn’t some ungodly hour, he raised his fist to knock. 

Bones beat him to the punch and the door swung open. Already dressed and ready for the day, he smirked at Jim knowingly, crossing his arms in what Jim could only describe as smug satisfaction.

Squinting and smiling sheepishly at him, Jim said quietly, “So about that hangover cure…?”

With a roll of his eyes and an amused smile, Bones turned to his desk and fished a hypo out of his medkit. Raising an eyebrow, he jerked his chin in indication for Jim to tilt his head. With a sigh, Jim did, and Bones gently jabbed him in the neck with the medicine.

Rubbing the injection site, more out of habit than anything, Jim whispered his thanks. He could already feel the headache and nausea subside.

“Anytime, kid,” Bones said, gesturing for him to return to the living room. Jim shrugged and shoved his hands into the pockets of the sweatpants he had been sulking around in for the last day or so. His bare arms prickled with goosebumps in the cool room, and he curled into the corner of the couch as Bones took the armchair opposite, dragging the blanket he had slept in over his shoulders and tucking his feet underneath himself. Bones must have put the blanket over him at some point last night.

“So,” Bones began, dragging the word out slowly.

Ah. So it was time to talk. He should have seen that coming from a mile away. The last few days had left him exhausted and disoriented; he was really off his game.

“You doin’ ok?” Bones asked, eyeing Jim with concern. To his credit, he’d done a great job at not hovering thus far, despite Jim’s complete and utter breakdown two weeks prior. Jim had promised Bones that they would talk. Apparently now was the time.

He sighed heavily, resigning himself to what was probably going to be an uncomfortable conversation, settling himself more comfortably on the couch. “I’m fine,” he said quietly. Catching the look Bones shot him, he amended, “I’m handling it. I just--”

_‘I just have memories in my head. Memories that belong to an older, alternate version of Spock.’_

_‘I don’t know what’s mine and what’s not.’_

_‘I can’t sleep unless I’m wasted or sedated.’_

_‘I royally fucked up and lost a lot of people.’_

_‘I’m supposed to be Starfleet’s poster child. But I don’t even know if I’m going to be in Starfleet this time next week.’_

He could hear his own voice, clear as a bell in his head-- saying things that would make any man sound stir crazy.

“--have to process some stuff.”

“Everything healed up ok?” Bones asked, waving a hand to indicate Jim’s entire body. Fair point; he’d been pretty banged up. “Ribs? Hand? Face?”

“Yeah. I’m good,” Jim replied. “It’s just these stupid memories.” He dragged his hands down his face in exasperation.

He certainly felt more emotionally stable than he had right after everything had happened, but with these memories…

Sudden, intense waves of grief and pain so vivid he felt certain his heart was going to break; each time leaving him feeling off balance and confused.

Getting through the debriefings had been hell.

He would have a sudden memory of debriefings in another time, another world, detailed recollections of things that he had never experienced, missions he had never been on, friendships he was almost positive he would never have. He had kept up a brave face, lest the admiralty have even more ammunition to use against him whenever they decided to get around to rehashing his hearing, but damn it, it _hurt._

It hurt to know that somewhere out there, this other version of Spock was wounded so deeply. Was anyone even with him? Did he have anyone? Jim hadn’t told anyone but Bones about him for fear of catastrophic consequences… was older Spock hiding himself away and grieving alone?

It hurt to know that in another universe, or timeline, or whatever; he and Spock had apparently been best friends-- brothers, even.

In this one he’d be lucky if he could ever get the Vulcan to look at him again after the things he’d said and done.

And hell if he knew what he was going to do about it. He couldn’t tell anyone else about Old Spock without potentially damaging or eradicating the space-time continuum somehow… so how was he supposed to get these memories under control?

“You’re still having these… flashes?” Bones asked, using the wording Jim had used when he’d told him what was happening. Jim nodded. “Are they any less frequent?”

“A little,” Jim said, hitching up one shoulder in a half shrug.

“But they’re still intrusive and annoying,” Bones said, understandingly. He’d always been able to read Jim well; it made him nervous sometimes. Jim picked at a loose thread in the blanket as the silence stretched on.

“I just don’t know how to fix it,” he said, finally. “And I _hate_ not knowing.”

Bones knew this about him, and he hummed softly in his throat in sympathy; Jim had always taken care of himself, he’d had to. Not knowing the answer to something meant he was inadequate, failing, and that was a risk he’d never been able to afford. When he failed, people died.

He looked at Bones. There were light bags under his eyes that spoke of late nights and long hours. Bones had been working double time ever since they warped into Vulcan Space. Jim wasn’t making his life any easier, either.

“You ok?” he asked.

Bones hesitated for a moment, then nodded, rubbing his hands on his thighs and pursing his lips as he considered his words. “I’m alright,” he said eventually. “It’s been a lot, I’m not gonna lie, but it’s my job. Nothin’ I ain’t seen before.”

And ok, Jim wasn’t always a great liar where Bones was concerned, but that was downright _terrible._ He frowned at Bones skeptically.

“Alright, alright,” Bones conceded, throwing his hands in the air and slumping back into the chair. “It’s a bit more than I’ve handled before, but really, kid, I’m alright. Don’t you worry about me.”

Jim smirked at him with a shake of his head. Not worry. Ha. That’s what they did: they worried about each other 75 percent of the time and they gave each other hell the other 25... well, maybe 85/15 for Bones. Jim got into more trouble than he did.

_Fond annoyance as his captain returned from yet another mission bloodied and bruised, but relatively unharmed, smiling widely with the exhilaration of success…_

_God damn it._

Groaning, he threw his head backwards, letting it rest on the back of the couch as he brought his hands up to tug at his hair in frustration.

_Get. out. of. my. head._

He heard the armchair creak as Bones rose, his footsteps growing louder as he approached. Crouching, he took hold of Jim’s wrists and gently removed his hands from his hair. Jim was reminded of a similar action the night of his panic attack as he huddled on the bathroom floor and he colored with embarrassment at the memory, relinquishing his grip. Bones held fast to his wrists.

“Hey, look at me,” he said firmly. Jim let his head flop forward off the back of the couch, focusing his gaze somewhere near Bones’ left foot. “I’ll wait,” Bones continued, “but the longer I sit like this the worse it is on my back, and I’m gonna take that out on you later, so I’d think twice about that if I were you.”

A breathy laugh slipped out before Jim could stop it. Damn. With a mockingly exasperated sigh, he made a show of meeting Bones’ eye.

“Happy now?” he asked sarcastically.

“Thrilled,” Bones replied, just at flatly. With a touch more sincerity, he continued: “We’re gonna figure this out. I’ve been doing some research, and I think I know what’s happening, we just gotta find the best way to go about handling it is all. It’s not gonna be like this forever.”

“What if we can’t?” Jim countered, frustration and exhaustion making him petty and argumentative.

“Then I’ll just have to go in and remove that part of your brain myself,” Bones said with a roll of his eyes. “And while I’m at it, I’ll take out the part that’s so goddamn negative.”

He groaned exaggeratedly as he rose to his feet and made his way toward the door, giving Jim a playful smack upside the head as he went past. “Have a little faith, would ya?”

“Ow,” Jim yelped, shocked. “Geez, what was that for?”

“For being a pain in the ass,” Bones quipped over his shoulder. Pausing at the door, he turned to face Jim. “It’s all gonna be ok, kid.”

With a roll of his own eyes, Jim waved him on. “Ok, ok, now go already. If you’re late, it’s _not_ my fault!”

Jim could have sworn he heard a mumbled, “Infant” as the door closed.

* * *

 

Hours later, Jim lay sprawled on his back on the floor, desperately trying to sort through his memories and restore some semblance of order to his mind.

 _Warm caring mother, tucking him in and reading him stories_ … not his.

 _Winona sitting at the kitchen table on his birthday crying and doing her damndest not to look at him_ … definitely his.

 _Warm evenings under the glow of the Vulcan sky_ … not his.

 _Cold nights huddled with his kids on Tarsus IV, sunburn pulling at his skin uncomfortably_ … his.

 _His father, assisting him with his schoolwork as he learned and memorized various formulas and philosophies…_ nope.

 _Frank winding up for a backhand after Jim dropped a plate…_ sounds about right.

This was going to take forever, and it didn’t really seem to be doing much for him anyway. He couldn’t possibly sort through every single memory in his head and figure out what was what and whose was whose. It would take him years, not to mention he really didn’t want to unpack a lot of that again. The events of the last few weeks would have brought back bad memories anyway; he didn’t need a refresher course. Having Old Spock’s memories in his head just complicated things all the further.

Sighing, he let his head thump down against the floor. Once. Twice. It was starting to hurt, and he’d probably give himself a lump. Oh well. Three times. Four. It was almost pleasantly distracting, aside from the dull ache forming. Five. Six.

A knock on the door interrupted him. Probably for the best. Bones would have killed him if he managed to give himself a concussion… again.

He hauled himself to his feet, calling out, “Coming!” to whoever was waiting for him as he made his way over.

Straightening his t-shirt, which had hiked up while he was laying on the floor, he pushed the button to allow the door to open.

Blinking, confused, he managed to force out, “Oh.”

Standing there, looking every bit as composed as he ever did, was Spock. The crisp lines of his formal uniform indicated that he had just left a debriefing himself. He held his hat tucked under his arm, the other was motionless at his side.

“Spock,” he said, finally managing to get his brain in gear and painfully aware that he was dressed only in an old t-shirt and sweatpants. “What can I do for you?”

Glancing at his attire briefly, Spock replied, “Nothing. In fact, I am here to assist you.”

_What?_

His confusion must have shown on his face, because Spock continued. “It has come to my attention that you are suffering through after-effects of a poorly executed mind meld, and are experiencing what can be loosely described as _‘emotional transference’_.Should you be amenable, I am here to help you manage the after effects of the mind mind.”

_Holy shit._

Jim couldn’t do anything but gape at him. How…?

Realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

_Son of a bitch._

Realizing they were standing in his open doorway in a dormitory where anyone could walk by and overhear, he grasped Spock’s uniform sleeve in one hand and hauled him bodily over the threshold. He took a quick glance up and down the hallway to make sure it was empty. It was, thank God.

“The use of force is not necessary,” Spock muttered from behind him. “I would have entered willingly had you requested it--”

“Jesus,” Jim hissed, slamming a hand down on the close button and listening to be sure the door closed behind him. He hit lock for good measure. “Are you insane? _Anyone_ could have heard you! Do you know what could have happened if--”

“Nothing,” Spock interrupted.

Jim stared at him, blinking in utter confusion. “What?”

“Nothing would have happened had I been overheard,” Spock continued.

“I don’t--I-- look, Spock, I’m sorry you got dragged into this, ok? Bones shouldn’t have opened his big mouth, but it’s bad enough that _I_ told _him_. I never should have said anything at all--”

“Doctor McCoy did not apprise me of your situation,” Spock said, placing his hat on the low table in front of the couch and smoothing out the wrinkles Jim had made in his sleeve.

“Then how did you…?”

“Upon disembarkation from the _Enterprise_ , I encountered my elder counterpart. He informed me of your meeting on Delta Vega. Regrettably, I had not had time to speak with him again until this morning. I inquired about your time with him, and he informed me of the meld. For those who are not accustomed to the process, it can be jarring. I can only imagine that my counterpart felt the same immense grief as I upon the destruction of our home world. And the loss of--” here he faltered, and Jim felt a pang of sympathy in his own chest. “Of so many,” Spock finished quietly.

_Ash. Dust. Clouds of debris fading to nothing. Where his planet once was, nothing but empty space, the light of the stars once hidden behind now shining brightly, mocking him with their appearance._

Jim shook his head in a fruitless attempt to clear his thoughts. Spock, ever vigilant, caught him at it and raised a brow.

“No doubt the emotional transference was far more significant than is to be typically expected; this is due both to the unfortunate circumstances preceding, and to your human mind.”

Jim scoffed in agreement, running a hand through his hair and turning to pace the length of the room. This was more than a little overwhelming. Spock knew? Spock knew and wanted to help? Spock knew, and wanted to help, _and_ was standing in his living room while he fought to get old Spock out of his head while wearing nothing but pajamas?  

“I thought,” he began, continuing to pace, “that if I told anyone it would… I don’t know, break the universe or something.”

“Yes,” Spock said, clasping his hands behind his back and lowering his gaze to the floor. “My counterpart informed me that he did not correct this assumption. If it has caused you undue worry, I apologize on… our behalf.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Jim said, “you didn’t do anything. I mean… _you_ did, but…” he waved a hand in a desperate hope that Spock would understand and make him stop talking.

“I take your meaning,” he replied.

They fell into an awkward silence.

_‘I have been and always shall be your friend.’_

_Yeah… when was that gonna happen?_

Clearing his throat, he gestured between them with his hand. “So uh… the universe isn’t going to end because I--”

“As I have previously stated, you caused nothing. During our encounter, my elder self revealed his identity with little prompting. To further his aims, he led you to believe the consequences of his discovery would be far more dire than the laws of physics would dictate.”

“But what about altering timelines and all of that? Butterfly effect?”

It couldn’t have all been for nothing.

"An antiquated theory which applies only to time-travel within the same universe and timeline-- and then, only in part,” Spock replied. “Surely you recall Dr. P. Xrallis’ thesis on that very topic, published in 2207.”

He stopped pacing abruptly. He _did_ know that. He had read that paper.

A desperate, hysterical burst of laughter flew from his lips and before he could stop it, he was giggling. He realized he sounded ridiculous, and _fuck_ if that didn’t set him off harder. He crossed one arm across his chest, resting the other over his eyes as he laughed at how _ridiculous_ it all was.

After several moments, Spock spoke.

“Are you alright?”

Forcing himself to calm down, still chuckling every few words, he replied.

“Me? Oh, I’m _great_. I’ve just spent the last-- the last several weeks thinking that I’m losing my mind and that there’s nothing I can do about it… aha-- without destroying the entire universe--”

“Your fears were not unfounded,” Spock said, eyeing him with concern, or as close to it as Jim had seen, “my counterpart led you to falsely believe that the consequences would--”

“No, no, I _know_ … but I should know better! I _do_ know better; in fact the Academy _required_ me to know better. I’ve just been so,” and he laughed again, because wouldn’t Spock just _love_ this, “ _emotional_ that I couldn’t think clearly.”

_‘Captain, you almost make me believe in luck.’_

_Not now._

“I am familiar  with what you have been feeling, at least in part,” Spock admitted quietly. “My own emotions, I am ashamed to say, have been-- as you know-- less than controlled in the wake of recent events.”

Spock looked defeated. His shoulders had fallen, and his eyes were trained on the ground.

And, wow, didn’t he feel like an asshole? Of course Spock was suffering way more than he was. He lost his planet. He lost his mom.

“Spock--” he said softly, taking a step towards the other man. Spock looked up sharply, correcting his posture.

“As I said when I arrived, I am willing to assist you in managing the effects of the meld, should you be open to accepting.”

“What-- yeah, Spock, I mean… _thank_ you, but are you--”

“If we could proceed-- without further manhandling?” Spock replied bruskly, brushing off his sleeve where wrinkles still remained from Jim’s grip despite his earlier efforts.

“Of course,” Jim agreed immediately, picking up on Spock’s desire for a change of topic. “Just add it to the charges against me: assaulting a senior officer.” He smirked cynically.

Spock raised an eyebrow in question.

“There are no charges against you, Jim.”

Wow, today was just full of surprises.

“What?”

“I have dropped my previous charges against you,” Spock explained.

“Ok…” Jim said, hesitantly. “Again, thank you, but… why? I cheated.”

Spock thought for a moment before replying.

“During our time working together, I came to realize that you did, in fact, understand the principle lesson of the test. You were merely unwilling to accept defeat. An admirable quality in practice, one that saved the lives of many.”

_And yet so many gone…_

“You know,” Jim said, sitting in the armchair with a sigh, “a lot of people have been saying that to me this week.”

Spock mirrored him, taking a hesitant seat on the couch opposite him. “And despite repeated assurances, you hesitate to believe it,” he replied. “Why?”

Jim shrugged, feeling his mental walls start going up. He didn’t do well with deep conversations, and certainly not personal ones.

But… if they were ever going to have a chance at this amazing friendship he kept catching glimpses of, he had to try.

“I’m uh--” he began, avoiding eye contact, “I don’t have the greatest track record with saving people.”

The silence stretched on just long enough to be uncomfortable. Just as Jim was about to speak again, if only to break the silence, Spock spoke.

“I do not know what lies in your past,” he said slowly. “I hope to be afforded greater clarity on that matter in the future. However, let the record clearly show that your actions aboard the Enterprise saved the lives of everyone on board, myself included. Your assistance on Vulcan allowed enough time to preserve my race. Your determination to save Captain Pike is the only reason he is still alive.

“Jim,” he continued, and Jim looked up to meet his eye. “Do not let our combined grief blind you to your successes.”

_Billions of lives lost because of me, Jim, because I failed._

“Our combined grief?” he questioned, feeling thoroughly overwhelmed.

Spock answered with a question of his own.

“Have you felt increased levels of melancholy and defeat since the destruction of the Narada? Or unable to think clearly?”

Jim could only nod.

“The meld,” Spock explained, “has compounded your own feelings of grief. The increased emotion from my counterpart will have led, in no small part to your confusion and your feelings of failure; not to mention exhaustion. I have discussed with him briefly his feelings regarding these recent events, and it would seem many of his personal beliefs about the situation have transferred to you. It was unintentional, I assure you.”

Of course it was. Jim knew that. His Spock may have been a bastard when they met, but he seemed decent enough when Jim wasn’t cheating on his test or insulting his relationship with his recently deceased mother.

_Oh shit._

“Spock,” he croaked. He had to apologize.

Spock continued, mistaking his raspy voice for a request.

“I can assist you in managing the emotions you currently feel and with ridding yourself of some of the lingering memories. Will you allow me?”

“O-of course, but Spock--”

“It is no trouble,” Spock insisted, rising to his feet. He gestured to the couch behind him. “May I--?” he asked.

Jim really had no idea what he was going to do, but he nodded his agreement anyway. Of course he could. Whatever he wanted, he could. Jim had been nothing but an asshole, and here he was dropping the charges against him and offering to help.

He was not expecting, however, for Spock to place one hand against the arm of the couch and effortlessly send the entire thing sailing backward several feet.

He next indicated the coffee table. When Jim again nodded his assent, he lifted it quickly and deposited it to the side of the room.

Finally, he eyed the chair Jim was still seated in, raising an eyebrow in question. Jim hastened to his feet and scuttled out of the way as it, too, was moved to the side.

The large empty space left behind was strange looking. He and Bones had never bothered to move the furniture around. He had never noticed how large the room was.

Spock had removed his formal jacket, laying it over the arm of the couch and leaving him in blacks and his dress slacks. He made his way back toward the door, toeing off his shoes one at a time and returning to the open space he had created.

Sitting down, he crossed his legs and invited Jim to join him with a nod of his head. Jim did so, far less gracefully, crossing his own legs where he sat.

“I am going to teach you the basics of Vulcan meditation. The practice should prove effective in managing the elevated emotions brought on by both the meld, and your own recent stress,” Spock began, resting his hands on his knees. Jim mimicked him, nodding. “I understand that your previous experience with melding was not a pleasant one. However, I believe that allowing me to meld with you may be the only way to remove some of the lingering memories my elder self imparted onto you. You have full say in the matter, and I shall not initiate one if you do not wish it. The mind meld is a far more serious process than my counterpart implied, and are not to be taken lightly. He should not have done so without your absolute understanding and consent, and, should you chose to agree, I will first give you a thorough explanation of what will happen. Is this clear?”

Again, Jim nodded.

If someone had told him a week ago that Spock would be sitting on his living room floor teaching him Vulcan mind tricks, he would have laughed in their face before calling bullshit.

“Melds are best performed when both parties are relatively at ease. In rare circumstances, they may be initiated in times of great distress, to ease the burden by the sharing of pain. I regret that the meld initiated with you was done during a time of immense sorrow for my alternate.”

“Really, Spock, you don’t have to keep apologizing for what he did.”

“For what _I_ did, Jim,” Spock corrected insistently.

“No,” Jim countered. “For what _he_ did. You’re not him, Spock. You might share a name, but we’re still in this timeline, not his. You don’t make his decisions.”

Spock eyed him quizzically.

“I may yet,” he returned, contemplatively.

“So,” Jim said abruptly after a few moments. “We’re going to meditate to try to clear our minds for a meld? So that there isn’t any uh… emotional transference?”

Spock dipped his head in affirmation. “Correct.”

“Ok,” Jim said softly. “Just tell me what to do.”

Spock arranged his hands into what he titled _gian mudra--_ oh good, another addition to his vocabulary--  bringing his thumb and forefinger tips together.  Jim followed suit. When Spock closed his eyes, so did Jim.

“Picture, if you would, a place that brings you peace,” Spock said, voice low and measured.

Jim thought immediately of the stars.

“Focus your attention,” Spock continued in the same steady tone, “only on this place, and on the peace that you feel there. Attempt to even your breaths.”

Jim breathed in and out slowly through his nose, counting to five with each until his body memorized the rhythm.

The stars drifted past him lazily, their glow familiar and inviting.

After some time, Spock’s voice came to him as though through a long tunnel.

“If you are sufficiently prepared, I will initiate the meld to relieve you of the memories which plague you.”

Jim hummed in agreement; the stars drifted on.

A hand on his face startled him, but only just. The peaceful presence of Spock’s mind brushed his, and his momentary panic abated.

Amidst the stars he could see wisps of memory, some his and some not, floating along. One by one, the memories that he knew to be other Spock’s vanished from view, fading like smoke, fanned away. His own memories were left untouched as Spock expertly sorted through and removed the others.

After what seemed like no time at all, he heard Spock’s voice again.

“Whenever you feel ready to do so,” he said, “you may leave your meditation. There is no need for haste.”

Jim felt the faintest sense of loss as Spock’s mind was left his.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. His body was pliant and relaxed. Muscles that had been taught with tension, now uncoiled. Spock was in the kitchen, using the replicator to obtain what looked like tea if the kettle and cup on the tray on the counter were any indication.

“Spock,” Jim called, and Spock tilted his head in indication that he was listening as he continued with his task. “I’m sorry for what I said about your mother.”

Spock’s movements halted abruptly. For the briefest moment, Jim wondering if he was going to break the teacup in his hand. With practiced calm, Spock simply placed the cup on the tray with the other, lifting the entire service and returning to the living room.

“It would seem,” he said, placing the tray on the floor between them and returning to his previous position, “that we must both become more practiced in refusing to apologize for things that are not our fault.”

“The things I said,” Jim barreled on, refusing to let Spock talk him out of apologizing for being a complete and utter ass, “they were completely unacceptable. There’s no justification for what I--”

“There is every justification,” Spock cut him off, raising his voice slightly for the first time. “You did what you had to do, in order to remove me from command and ensure that your plan would be enacted. It was the only option for the successful rescue of Captain Pike, and the assurance of a victorious outcome against Nero.” Pouring Jim a cup of tea, then filling his own, he continued, “It was only logical.”

“It was still wrong, and I’m still sorry,” Jim insisted.

“You are forgiven,” Spock said softly.

Still feeling the need to make amends, Jim said hesitantly.

“I know you loved her, Spock.”

Spock was silent a moment.

“I did,” he said, lowering his eyes to his teacup. “I only wish that I had told her.”

Jim ducked his own head, forcing their eyes to meet.

“She knew.”

Jim could have sworn Spock’s lips quirked up at the corners, if only slightly. He smiled gently in return.

It was at this moment that the door clicked with a denied entry. Glancing at the clock, Jim realized it was nearly 7, and time for Bones to be off shift. And he had locked the door.

Oops.

Muffled cursing from beyond the door alerted them both to Bones’ displeasure as he punched in the unlock code with far more force than was necessary. The door swished open without the two of them ever moving.

Bones took one look at them, seated on the floor, tea service between them and all furniture forced to the side and declared, loudly, “I don’t wanna know, but one of you’d better get me a teacup-- because if there’s a tea party, I damn well better be invited.”

Spock cast a brief glance at Jim in muted concern. “Of course, Doctor,” he said; before rising to do exactly that.

Bones stomped his way over to Jim and flung himself gracelessly down to the floor beside him.

“Alright, so I think I might have found the answer to--”

“Already taken care of, Bones,” Jim said with a smile as Spock returned with the extra cup.

Bones accepted it with a thank you, before turning back to Jim and continuing. “I assume Spock had something to do with that?”

“Indeed, Doctor, Spock interjected. “When I was informed of the circumstances, I offered my assistance in removing the memories that were imparted during the meld. I have found Jim to be surprisingly adept at meditation. It was far easier than originally anticipated.”

Bones’ eyebrows skyrocketed. “Oh, so _I’m_ sworn to secrecy, but Spock finds out from some stranger?”

“Not a stranger, from older him!” Jim squawked as Bones reached for him, clearly intent on making his displeasure known. “He ran into him at the docking station and he told him!”

“Universe altering consequences,” Bones continued, wrapping an arm around Jim’s neck and jabbing his knuckles into his scalp. “Timeline destroying possibilities!” he exclaimed, rubbing his knuckles fiercely into the tender skin as Jim laughed and repeated apologies. Suddenly, Bones’ paused. Jim hesitated in the neck hold.

“Bones?” he asked, cautiously.

“And where,” Bones said, voice dangerously low, “did you get this bump?”

“Uhhh--” Jim said nervously. “The floor is a pretty hard thing to knock your head into…”

“And just how many times did you knock your head into the floor?”

“Uhh… once?”

“Spock,” Bones said cheerfully. “Hold him for me, will you? I think I need to explain to him why lying to a doctor is a bad idea.”

"Regrettably, Doctor, I have a meeting I must attend,” Spock said nonchalantly, and Jim could swear he saw amusement in his eyes. “I’m sure I will have ample opportunity to assist you in that endeavor in the future.”

As Spock put his jacket back on and began putting on his shoes, Jim wrestled his way out of Bones’ grip and joined him in the doorway.

“Thank you, Spock,” he said sincerely. “Seriously, I owe you big time.”

“You owe me nothing,” Spock replied, raising his hand in the customary Vulcan salute. “I only hope that we may begin anew. An old friend told me that there is much we could accomplish together, in friendship. I very much wish that we may yet achieve this future.”

With a nod, he exited. As the door closed behind him, Jim found himself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time in weeks.

The next morning, when he was called before the admiralty, he had to remind himself that the charges against him had been dropped and not to panic.

When they offered him the Enterprise, he remembered Spock’s words--

_"I'm sure I will have ample opportunity to assist you in that endeavor in the future."_

\--and realized he had known all along.

Two months later, when they were preparing to ship out and Spock appeared in the lift, requesting permission to come aboard and offered his services as First Officer, Jim was only too willing to reply with the only possible answer:

“It would be my honor, Commander.”

Maybe there was hope for that legendary friendship, after all.

  
  



End file.
